The making of an artist
by MMBC
Summary: 'When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that's amore...' That's Amore by Dean Martin


Author's note: Hi, it's me again. OK, I know I should be finishing Gift of Life, but there's no way I'll make it before term starts again, so instead I'll make a head start with this much lighter piece (unless it gets out of hand like GOL did). Settings are in the same universe as GOL, for those who read it. Basically, it's AU, but based on The Lost Canvas versions of Dohko and Shion. Shion is an apprentice artist, while Dohko is the ringmaster and owner of the Libra Performing Troupe. The setting is in 18th century Venice. The rating _might_ change later. Enjoy.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

**Chapter 1: 'Bugger off' means 'Come again'**

'Shion! Shion! I brought fresh mozzarella!'

The door to his studio slammed open with a loud crash, before a force of nature barrelled its way in as a maelstrom. For the umpteenth time, Shion Agnelli sighed and rubbed the dots on his forehead.

'Dohko.' Was his curt greeting.

'Oh pray, stop being so cold towards me. You're a gentle person; why make an exception out of me?'

'Well, except for you no one would kick down my door and force their way in without so much courtesy as an announcement. That, and no one else would be bothering me _every single day_ for the past month when I'm trying to complete this commission that's due _next week_. I don't know, Dohko, perhaps the reason why you are the exception is because no one is so special as you are?'

'Sarcasm does not become you, my dear Shion.' Despite the sting in his words, Dohko took it in good nature, unshakable a man as he was. His laugh was pure and light-hearted, and for the briefest moment, it almost blinded Shion with its exuberance. 'Come, that commission can wait a few hours, can it not? Let us make pizza!'

Before Shion could get another word out, his hand that was holding the brush was seized in an iron grip, the brush snatched out of his grasp, and he was physically hauled in the direction of the kitchen. The door was kicked open with another crash, before the other man proceeded to thoroughly coat the both of them in flour in his so-called attempt to 'generously flour the work surface'.

'Dohko, here in Italia people usually have the dough formed first before they flour the work surface. Are you sure you know how to make pizza?' In between his sneezes, Shion managed to ask with some semblance of justified exasperation. Despite the paint smears on his face, Shion was not amused to have other substances on him, especially when such substances were put on by a hand other than his own.

'Oh, really?' Completely unapologetic, the other man threw him a grin that somehow managed to shine through the thick layer of flour on his own face. 'Well, I guess we could begin making the dough now. At least we won't have to flour the work surface again when it's ready.'

It was all Shion could do to sigh again as he watched the other man turn his kitchen into a war zone. For countless times he had questioned himself, why would he let this one man disrupt his well-organised routines, time and again, until the only constant thing in his life turned into Dohko himself. So far, Shion had been unable to find an answer yet, and now he was uncertain as to whether there would be an answer to this question at all. Deep within his mind, though, there was something whispering things to him, things that sounded suspiciously like he had indeed been aware of the truth for a long time, only that he had been avoiding it like the stubborn man he was. He turned the thought over. Perhaps that was the case, Shion mused as he watched the white Italian sun cast a halo upon Dohko's dark head, gilding his brown hair a shade of bronze so fine it nearly stole his breath away. For a brief moment, he was rendered speechless as the scene played out in front of him, still and beautiful as a painting just waiting to be captured on canvas. He watched as Dohko wiped at his nose, drawing a clean streak across his floured face in an almost comical manner, before a sheepish grin that shamed even the sunlight momentarily was directed in his direction. He watched as muscles moved beneath tan skin as the man kneaded the dough, rough fingers pressing firmly into the supple surface with a dexterity Shion himself never possessed outside of his trade. He watched as a bead of sweat rolled languorously down the side of a corded neck, disappearing behind a plain shirt collar, and suddenly found it so very difficult to swallow past the lump in his throat. _Indeed, either I am in denial, or I am losing my mind. _Shion thought to himself, before forcefully prying his mind from the abyss it was about to fling itself into by sheer force of will alone. He cleared his throat, failed when the sound that came out dangerously resembled an undignified squeak, and cleared this throat again.

'And what exactly are you trying to do now?'

'Why, tossing the dough, of course.' Dohko tilted his head to the side in a breath-taking gesture, before understanding dawned in his eyes. 'Should I not be doing this?'

'Generally, no.' After giving himself a mental slap, Shion was proud to hear that his voice was still firm, as it should be. 'You must let the dough rest and rise for some time.'

'Oh.' The hint of disappointment was palpable in Dohko's voice. With something akin to regret, he paused in the acrobatics he had been performing with the barely put together dough. 'Well, then. Is there anything I should be doing while waiting for it to rise?'

'Not particularly.' And before he could catch himself, Shion had to add, 'Does the ringmaster have nothing better to do with his time than make pizza with such a lowly apprentice artist as myself?'

For the first time, a fleeting withering look appeared on the other man's cheerful countenance. Yet, as quickly as it appeared, with a shake of the dark head, the look vanished into thin air, such that Shion had to wonder whether it was he who had dreamt up the look. There was an unpleasant pull at his heart at the uncharacteristic chastised feeling Dohko exuded, and before he realised what he was doing, he had raised a hand to… to do what, exactly, he wondered. Shion caught himself before the rebellious hand could reach the other man, and as it hung there in awkward limbo, he fancied there was a sudden gleam of happiness in Dohko's eyes.

'My dear Shion, my good sir, future king of artists and king of my heart, if it's not too much to ask, would you allow me the privilege of watching you bring life to the canvas while we wait for our magnificent pizza dough to rise?'

His hand was caught again in that unrelenting grip, the calluses a sharp contrast against his artist's skin, yet almost gentle in the way it silently comforted him. Good humour again dominating his look, Dohko slowly lowered his head, and delicately, he placed a single kiss against the back of the hand he was holding, all the while imprisoning Shion's eyes in that absolutely confident gaze. In a split second, something flared up in the calm of his stare; Shion dared not name it, nor was he certain he understood correctly what it meant. He only knew that it suddenly left his knees very weak and his heart fluttering against his ribcage as the mad wings of a hummingbird. Where those rough lips met his skin, there was a brand that burnt as hot iron, and the tingle obstinately stayed even as he snatched his hand back as though stung by a venomous wasp, a gasp escaping unbidden.

'Have you no sense of propriety, _signore?! _This is precisely why I would treat you as an exception to my usual behaviour!' However hard he tried to hide the embarrassment in his voice, it still found another display in the terrible heat that burnt on his cheeks, to Shion's mortification. This, however, was not his usual behaviour, either. Shion knew very well that he should be throwing the infuriating man before him out of his studio, out of his house, and if possible, drive him away from the city. A month ago, he would have attempted those alternatives. Now, however, the mere thought of having the only constant thing in his life taken away, again, terrified him, and without reason, Shion found himself incapable even of cogitating the idea of expelling Dohko by his own will, much as the other man deserved it. Dohko, too, seemed to quickly recognise what Shion was silently contemplating. Crafty weasel.

'It's not that I have no sense of propriety, my dear Shion; it is precisely because it is you that I treat you in this way. You, too, are the exception in my life, see? Can you not call it fate, when I fell in love with you completely against my will? Recall, will you, how we first met in that little nameless town, and again in your native city, Firenze, and now in dreamy Venezia, as you travelled at your master's behest. What other force than fate would direct and entwine our routes, may I ask, such that everywhere you went, you could not escape from me? I, for one, have not been pursuing you across Europe. Alas, who am I to say I have the power to resist almighty Fate? I'm afraid my fragile heart has been removed from my control, to be placed in your merciful hand.'

As he spoke, a grin firmly in place, Dohko raised his hands in a defensive gesture, sending more flour into the air. Against the backdrop of the glaring sunlight, the pristine particles gathered around the man in a nimbus that Shion could have sworn appeared almost holy, and he had to briefly wonder whether he would soon die from lack of breath; truly, it was unhealthy to have his breath taken away at every little action that man took. Yet he dared anyone to not react as he did, for Dohko of the Libra Troupe was an extraordinary man who would bring light to dark places with a single radiant smile without a care in the world, if Shion Agnelli had ever seen any extraordinary man in his life, and he had seen many, of that he was certain. Perhaps, his heart reminded him, had he not been the stubborn man he was, he would have asked this person to be his model in a heroic painting. And that, he mused absently, might become his greatest painting one day.

'Enough of this folly!' Before his mind could travel too far, Shion snapped, ignoring the palpable panic in his tone. 'I shall hear no more talk of this love; have you lost touch with your reality? You could have been imprisoned for this blasphemy! Were it a joke, though, it is in extremely bad taste! Come, watch me paint if you will, but pray refrain from uttering further madness in my presence!'

As the young man marched back into his studio, he missed the wistful look directed at him from the other man remaining in the kitchen. There was something about the look that seemed to bespeak unspoken sorrow, which somehow was dimming the light surrounding the light-hearted young man into a soft and sad atmosphere so tangible it could have been cut with a knife. He watched in silence as the head of golden hair disappeared from the door frame, getting further and further away from him without a single glance backward, despondency dark in normally bright eyes. Eventually, though, the man laughed, the sound carried away by the breeze from the open window, and the secrets in it became lost to all but their owner. He turned around in the little white kitchen, as though taking in his surroundings for the first time. There was a glass of water on the windowsill, the flowers inside long dead. The desolate space spoke of long disuse, equipments organised in a too-neat manner in an artist's house, and cooking ingredients still packed. Aside from the mess Dohko just made, there was no sign that the kitchen belonged to an inhabited house at all. Shion the artist simply did not cook, for his time was better put to honing his skills.

'What am I to do with you, Shion?' He muttered, before shaking and his head and walking back towards the studio. The accompanying smile, fond and soft, remained private.

The afternoon after that was spent in a semi-peaceful manner. Before long, Shion was completely absorbed in his painting again, focusing on nothing but the scene which he was bringing to life with his brush. It was better this way; he could feel the tremors in his limb beginning to die down as work took over his mind. In the barren land, where black and shades of gray dominated, stood out a spot of light surrounding a mother dipping her son into frothing Styx. The artificial lighting casted sharp shadows on the figures, and where the light reached, the woman of fair skin was a glowing angel, whereas in the shadow, her dark features recalled those of gloomy Styx herself. Shion could feel himself nearing the demi-god, as though with a little reach, he could touch and admire her wretched beauty with his own hand. What sort of mother dipped her own son into Hell's water, even if for the child's protection? The boy Shion painted was twisting in on himself, as though struggling with all his might to break away from the grip of both his mother and of the awful waters, which were about to swallow him whole from the fury with which it pranced, hunger unsatiated until their greed had been filled with blood. Shion himself was lost in the struggle, hatred and despair slowly claiming his brush as he dabbed faster, almost in a frenzy to escape – from what, he knew not, for it was his very brush that brought such despair to the child, he who should have been innocent and tranquil in the loving hand of his mother. Yet, he was enjoying it. This was his playground; this was where he derived his morbid pleasure from, and Shion almost wanted more of it.

'These… characters, are they the wife and child of your patron?' The haze surrounding his thought cleared as a familiar voice sounded behind him, upbeat and full of confidence. For an instant, Shion could not help but feel irritated as his muse was chased off, before a sigh of relief escaped his mouth. No doubt, at the same time he had been saved from a dark mood for days to come just by a few simple words.

'Yes, they are. I have been commissioned to portray the lady and child as Thetis and Achilles.'

A sharp laugh startled Shion, before he swivelled back to look at a very strange Dohko, who was fashioning something akin to resentment in his expression. All traces of warmth gone from his face, the man spoke with words that instilled an inexplicable fear in Shion's heart.

'How very egocentric, indeed. It is just what you would expect of the Venezian nobles who knew little outside feasts and carnivals, I suppose. A mere woman compared to wise Thetis, and a mere infant compared to invincible Achilles! Why, your painting would no doubt satisfy the good patron!'

'Pray, whatever do you mean by that?'

'Well, his wife has this demonic beauty about her and his child is about to be plunged head-first into the waters called "Hate" by his own mother. Had I not heard from you that it was a commission, I would have thought it a novel interpretation of this old myth.' Then, hastily, as though just realising what sort of mistake he made, Dohko added as utter terror seized Shion's countenance; 'I do not mean to criticise your technique, or portrayal, of course! Indeed, I believe only a rare talent could bring out such intense emotions in a painting, and up till now I have not seen a single painting as emotional as yours, to be certain. Do not look at me like that, my dear Shion, I flattered you not – I have indeed noticed that your style is not the Venezian school you have come here to study, and I, too, have seen many a painting in the houses of my own patrons. My only regret is that this work of yours is a commissioned piece – it was the pomposity of the commissioner that ruined its aesthetics, else it would have been perfect.'

In the silence that ensued, Shion fancied he could hear his own heart beats as the staccato slowed to a steady rhythm within his chest. Only this man had understood him and his desire to change the ways of the brush; only this man's words could chase away whatever doubt he had in the path he had chosen. Dohko of the Libra Troupe was a man who had ever only met the indifferent Shion who devoted his life to painting, and the rest of his time to his family; these violent emotions that he sought to express through his brushstrokes, he had never shown Dohko. Yet, despite it all, it was only Dohko who ever dared to put such turbulence into definite words, as though baring Shion's hidden soul to the world. What use was harmony, was wealth, was luxury, when it was these violent emotions that Shion wanted to put to the canvas? Only Dohko recognised Shion's efforts in spite of the controversy his work was bound to cause.

'Well?' Unable to bear the deafening silence, it was Dohko who squirmed under Shion's scrutinising stare. 'Did I misspeak? If I did, well, my deepest apologies. I am neither a well-educated man, nor do I have a good sense of aesthetics; I still think your work is beautiful in that expressive way, though. This tension that I can feel in my very own limbs is proof of it, of that you should be certain.'

Shion stared at the man for a while more, letting his words and his good intention seep into the cores of his soul, lulling him in the secured knowledge that there was a man in the world who would support Shion in his most important endeavours come what may. A warm smile broke on his countenance for the first time that day, and he shook his head. Perhaps it really was fate, that he had met this man.

'You did not misspeak, Dohko. In fact, it is true that my brushstrokes resemble those of the Flemish artists more than of Italian schools, nor is this a suitable occasion to experiment it, when it is a commissioned piece designed to flatter the ego of wealthy men. Yes, everything you pointed out was true, and I am grateful for your encouragement.' At the relieved look that washed over Dohko's young features, his eyes softened even more. He had forgotten how young they both were. 'I am quite tired of painting now, and the dough should have risen nicely. Would you like to continue making the pizza?'

As simple as that, the tension between them that had prevailed ever since the earlier incident in the kitchen faded away into nothing. Shion was given a rare opportunity to observe Dohko's tossing of the dough as though he would a handkerchief in that undeniably elegant manner only practised hands were capable of. When the show came to an end, he had to consciously hold himself back from asking the other man to perform it again, just to have another chance at marveling at the ease that flowed like water through his movements. But as they spent the next hour waiting for the pizza to bake in the old oven owned by Shion's landlady, he was content to listen to the tales of the faraway lands that Dohko had been to. Occasionally, though, as the other man was immersed in a memory of a foreign land that Shion had never even imagined, he would steal a look or two, admiring the way the man's eyes lit up as he spoke of a particularly fond instance. Perhaps it was the artist in him, or perhaps it was something more that he dared not name, but as he took in Dohko's exotic features, he could but believe, if only for a moment, that this man would indeed make the best hero model in the world. Perhaps Shion was even happy just to watch this one man…

'Marry me, Shion, and then we can tour the world together!'

On second thoughts, Shion could not stand another minute in the same space as this ridiculous man who seemed incapable of understanding 'no', 'not interested', 'stop', or 'bugger off, you git'.

At the end, though, when their hour was up and it was time to divide their pizza before parting ways, Shion was again surprised when Dohko merely shook his head with a grin so warm it carved a spot in his heart.

'Apologies, I must hurry back to the Troupe now; performance is in an hour and preparation is arduous. Besides, that pizza is only enough for one man for about two meals. I shall return tomorrow with more food.'

As the man disappeared down the sun-drenched lane, his back proud and a spring in his steps, Shion could but lean against a nearby wall as the breath was again knocked out of his lungs and his stomach started doing random back-flips. For the life of him he could not comprehend why that man would think for him to such an extent – was Dohko with him the whole time only for the sake of spending time with Shion? Just as he had done every day for the past month, his memory helpfully reminded. A worldly and jovial man who commanded the attention of his audience, and ringmaster of a travelling circus troupe at the age of eighteen. Shion almost gripped his hair in frustration at not knowing why such a man would remain so fixated on a poor apprentice artist such as himself for so long, before the part of his mind that spoke previously reminded him again that he was a coward denying what was already in the wisdom of his subconscious. Shion lifted his eyes, only to meet with an empty lane, where a brilliant smile should have remained, feeling a twinge of loneliness and a vague dread of it. The only constant thing in his life now, of course.

Shion would never admit this, but just between himself and himself, he was looking forward to the 'tomorrow' that Dohko had promised.


End file.
